


a dark world aches for a splash of the sun

by spacejames



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Drama, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, More tags to be added, PTSD, Post-Canon, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:07:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23306533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacejames/pseuds/spacejames
Summary: When Saihara opens his eyes to blinding white light, his first thought is that he must be dead.
Relationships: Momota Kaito/Saihara Shuichi
Comments: 11
Kudos: 70





	1. a ghost out of his grave

**Author's Note:**

> It’s nothing new, but I thought I’d try my hand at a post-canon fic. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Title is from “Cough Syrup” by Young the Giant)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from “Ghosting” by Mother Mother.

When Saihara opens his eyes to blinding white light, his first thought is that he must be dead. 

But that doesn’t seem quite right. After all, if he were dead, his body wouldn’t be aching so much, right? He squints into the bright light, flexing his fingers experimentally.

Gradually, Saihara is able to grasp that he’s lying on his back on what feels like a bed, staring up at fluorescent lights that shouldn’t be as bright as they are. There’s a soft, steady beeping coming from somewhere on his right, and he manages to turn his head, forcing his blurry eyes to focus. 

A heart monitor. Saihara’s gut swoops with unexpected anxiety, and he slowly looks down at himself, noting the hospital gown, the IV hooked up to his arm, the papery sheets below his body. 

Why is he in a hospital?

The door opens, and Saihara’s gaze snaps over to it, his whole body stiffening. The heart monitor’s beeps increase slightly in speed as he watches a doctor enter the room, seemingly preoccupied with something on her clipboard.

She nearly drops it when she looks up and sees that Saihara is awake, her eyes going wide. “Ah, Saihara-san!” she says, surprise coloring her voice. “You’re awake!”

“Where am I?” Saihara’s voice is rusty, hoarse. He didn’t realize how dry his throat was until he spoke. He swallows hard and forces himself to continue despite it, despite how heavy his tongue feels in his mouth, dry as sandpaper. “What… what happened? Why…”

_Why can’t I remember?_

The doctor adjusts her glasses, scribbling a quick note on her clipboard before advancing further into the room, settling on a chair beside his bed. Saihara watches her with poorly disguised mistrust. “Can you tell me what you remember?” she asks, her tone gentle. 

Saihara swallows again, or tries to, anyway. “I don’t…” he starts, brows furrowing as he racks his brain for some kind of hint, anything that might give him a clue as to why he’s here. “I’m…”

“It’s okay, Saihara-san,” the doctor says reassuringly. “Some memory and cognitive functioning issues are completely normal. Take your time.”

 _Normal for what?_ He wants to ask, but he’s too busy struggling to pull a memory out of the depths of his foggy, muddled brain. But nothing is coming. “I don’t know,” he says, the words sounding slurred to his own ears. His eyelids feel impossibly heavy. “I wanna sleep.”

The doctor writes something else on her clipboard. “It’s alright. You can go back to sleep, Saihara-san.”

So he does.

* * *

The next time Saihara wakes up, his head feels much clearer. His body still aches, though not quite as much as before—but that’s the last thing on his mind. 

Because this time, he remembers.

It all comes rushing back to him—the killing game, the Ultimate Academy, Monokuma, the murders and the class trials, Shirogane’s bizarre revelations that none of it was real, that everything was fake, that _Saihara_ was fake, he and his friends nothing more than works of fiction—

The heart monitor is beeping frantically, and the same doctor from before rushes in, worry written across her face. “Saihara-san! What’s wrong?”

Saihara struggles to answer, still caught up in the onslaught of memories, taking over his mind like a flood. “I—I—”

Quickly, the doctor sets down her clipboard and fills a small plastic cup with water, coming to Saihara’s side and holding it to his lips. “Breathe, Saihara-san. And drink this.”

Normally, Saihara would be suspicious, but he did just watch her fill it up, so it’s not likely that she slipped anything into his drink. Plus, his mouth is so painfully dry that he can’t even hesitate to part his lips, gulping down the blessedly cold water too fast and gasping for breath. 

It helps distract him for a moment, desperately trying to get more of the water in his mouth, but the doctor is pulling the cup away from him, saying, “Take it easy, Saihara-san. Drink slowly.” And she’s right, of course, he needs to drink slow or he’ll overwhelm his body. 

Saihara obediently sips the water when she brings it back, washing away the taste of sleep in his mouth. “How long have I been out?” he asks, his voice still gravelly. 

“Three days,” the doctor says. 

“Where are Harukawa-san and Yumeno-san?” It’s the next thing he thinks to ask, and as soon as the words have left his lips, he realizes how badly he wants to know, and how afraid he is of the answer. _Please, let them be safe, please—_

“They’re both here,” she says, and Saihara closes his eyes, relief washing over him. “Both recovering.”

Saihara lets out a deep breath, nodding slowly. They’re okay. His friends are okay. “What happened to us?” he says next, swallowing another mouthful of water. He doesn’t remember anything past standing with Harukawa and Yumeno outside the ruins of the academy, gazing up into the sky, finally ready to escape the hell they’d been living in for the past several weeks. 

The doctor helps him finish off the cup, then sits down, reaching for her clipboard again. “You’re currently in a rehabilitation facility specifically designed for participants of Danganronpa,” she says, and Saihara reflexively winces at the name. At the reminder that he’s merely a fictional character. “As for what happened, you completed the game and escaped the school. You and your friends were picked up by our staff and brought here to recover, along with the others.”

At that, Saihara sits up a little, staring at her. “What do you mean, the others?”

“The other participants,” she says, her gaze downturned as she scribbles furiously. 

Saihara shakes his head. “What are you talking about?”

Glancing up, the doctor pauses, realization crossing her features. “Oh,” she says. “Saihara-san, I’m talking about the rest of your fifteen classmates.”

She can’t mean… “I thought—aren’t they—” Saihara can’t finish the sentence, the hope bubbling up in his chest too unbearable. He tries desperately to curb it, stomping it down, _they’re dead, you saw them die—_

“They’re alive,” says the doctor. “All of them.”

* * *

The doctor proceeded to explain to Saihara that the killing game he participated in was a reality show, that no actual death occurred on set, that all of his friends are still alive. It doesn’t really process fully in his mind—he suspects it won’t until he actually sees them. 

“If this is a joke, it’s fucked up,” he’d said to her. 

She had just smiled and shook her head. “I assure you, Saihara-san, I’m not joking.”

He’s not allowed to leave his bed yet, something about still needing time to build his strength back up. They bring him food and water three times a day, but other than that, he’s left alone to try and process everything that’s happened to him in the last few weeks, plus the new information he’s been given. 

Saihara spends most of his free time for those first two days or so sleeping. There’s not much else to do, honestly. The scant few books they have aren’t interesting, but Saihara flips through a few of them anyway, because there’s literally nothing better to do. 

On the morning of what Saihara has counted as his third day here, he’s idly reading a book of riddles when the door bursts open. Startled, he looks up, and standing in the doorway is—

“Momota-kun?!”

Momota’s chest heaves, his eyes wide as he looks at Saihara. He’s wearing a plain pair of dark jeans and a white T-shirt, and his hair is a little shorter, his facial hair grown out along his jawline a little and shorter on his chin. “Shuichi,” he says, and his voice cracks a little. 

Saihara moves to get up, but his arm is still hooked up to the IV, and he winces a little. Momota stands there for a moment longer before he springs into action, hurrying to Saihara’s side. 

His heart is pounding, a rapid beat against his ribcage, roaring and rushing like the ocean in his ears. “Momota-kun,” he repeats, the lump in his throat making the word wobble out as he reaches out. “I—”

An unsteady grin spreads across Momota’s face, and he grips Saihara’s hand, lacing their fingers together and holding on tightly. “Hey, bro,” he says, squeezing his hand. Saihara can see that his eyes are brimming with tears.

“Hey,” Saihara echoes, his own vision blurring, a shaky laugh of disbelief escaping him. “Oh my god, you’re really alive—!”

They fall into each other’s arms, Momota’s cheek pressed against Saihara’s temple, Saihara’s nose smushed against Momota’s shoulder, and it’s perfect. Saihara’s hands curl into the fabric of Momota’s shirt, holding him tight, afraid that if he lets go, his friend will disappear into a cloud of smoke, slipping through the cracks in Saihara’s trembling fingers. 

After a moment, Momota pulls back with a breathless laugh, wiping his eyes quickly. “Man, it’s good to see you,” he says, grinning at Saihara, that bright smile that he’d gotten so used to seeing every day. “They didn’t tell me you were awake!”

“Honestly, I haven’t been fully conscious until maybe yesterday,” Saihara says. There are still tears running down his cheeks, and he sniffles, blinking away the blurriness. 

Momota nods, adjusting his position so that he’s perched on the edge of the bed, one leg hanging off the edge. “Glad to see you’re feeling better,” he says. 

“‘Better’ is a relative term,” Saihara says. He looks down at his lap. “I’m still trying to process… everything.”

“I get it,” Momota says kindly. “It’s pretty crazy, huh? When I woke up here and they said I wasn’t actually dead…” He rubs his chin thoughtfully, then looks at Saihara again. “But anyway, can you stand? I’m sure the others would love to see you.”

Saihara’s heart flutters. “Is everyone here?”

“Yeah,” Momota answers, hopping off the bed. “If you can walk, we should go see everyone!”

Slowly, Saihara moves to the edge of the bed. He’s still a little shaky, having been bedridden aside from going to the bathroom for the past three days, but he doesn’t want to show weakness in front of Momota. “Ah, I’m still in this hospital gown,” he says, embarrassed. 

Momota perks up. “I can go find the doctor!” he says. “I want to run back to my room and get some stuff first, and I’ll have her bring you some clothes.”

“Okay,” Saihara says, giving Momota another small smile as he watches the other boy head out of the room. Once he’s gone, Saihara allows himself to flop back against the pillows, covering his face with his hands and letting out a choked sob.

* * *

By the time Momota gets back, the doctor has already come by with some clothes for Saihara. It’s chilly enough in the hospital that goosebumps prickle all over his skin when he changes, and he’s grateful for the warmth of the clothes she brought—dark jeans that are just long enough that he has to roll them up, a grey T-shirt, and a black hoodie. He pulls it over his head, then combs his fingers through his hair, sorting out any stray pieces. 

There’s a knock at the door, and Saihara can’t help jumping slightly. “Come in!” he calls, and Momota opens the door, beaming when he sees Saihara standing beside the bed. 

“Hey, you’re already dressed! C’mon, let’s go,” he says cheerily. Saihara can’t really tell if his upbeat attitude is a front or not; it certainly seems genuine, but it’s hard to believe that Momota could be genuinely happy right now, with everything that’s happened. He supposes that Momota has had a little more time to get used to it. 

Tugging at the hem of his hoodie, Saihara hurries over to Momota. When he gets closer to the door, though, something catches his eye that makes him stop short. 

Momota is… holding a cane. He’s got one hand wrapped around the handle, not leaning on it too heavily, but it’s there. Saihara just looks at it for a moment, a pang of worry hitting him. 

All at once, he remembers the way Kaito had been during the killing game—desperately trying to hide how sick he was getting, coughing up blood and growing weaker until all his energy was directed just towards standing. Wasn’t that meant to just be another fabrication made by the creators of the game? Is he still sick, or did something else happen?

“You coming, Shuichi?” Momota says, interrupting his thoughts. 

“Ah, yeah, sorry, Momota-kun!” Saihara blinks, his eyes darting back up to Momota’s face. That smile looks slightly more strained than it had before; he must’ve noticed Saihara looking at his cane. Guiltily, Saihara pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt, then shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’m ready.”

Momota leads him down the coldly lit hallway, in the opposite direction of the bathrooms. They turn to the left, and at the end of that hall there’s a set of double doors. Without hesitation, Momota turns the knob, pushing the door open and gesturing for Saihara to go inside. 

Swallowing hard, Saihara glances at Momota’s encouraging smile and goes through the doors. The room is medium-sized, with two large couches facing each other on either side of a coffee table and three armchairs on the other sides. Several posters hang on the walls, each with some kind of meaningless motivational phrase written on them, and there’s a TV against the far wall, with what looks like the daily news playing on mute. 

All of the details about the room are far less important than the people inside. 

Toujou is curled up on the corner of one of the couches, reading a book. Yonaga and Gonta are having a quiet conversation on the other end of the couch. Harukawa is idly watching the TV from the opposite couch, while Shinguuji sits on one of the armchairs, his fingers tangled up in intricate patterns in a thin red string. Yumeno is half-asleep on another chair, and Hoshi is standing slightly removed from the rest of the group, eyes on the TV, a bag of chips in his hand. Ouma, Iruma, Chabashira, Amami, and Kiibo are all missing, as is Shirogane, although Saihara would have been surprised if she had been present. 

The person that most catches Saihara’s eye, though, is Akamatsu. She’s sitting on the floor with her back against one of the couches, curled up with her arms wrapped around her knees, watching the TV as well. Saihara’s heart nearly stops when he sees her. 

“Hey, guys?” Momota’s voice is surprisingly soft, but it carries through the room, and nearly everyone looks up, and their eyes all land on Saihara almost at once. 

Akamatsu is the first one on her feet, dancing around the coffee table and all but running up to Saihara. “Saihara-kun!” she cries, catching both of his hands in hers. Her pale violet eyes glitter with joy, a smile spreading wide across her face. 

Saihara feels tears spring to his eyes once more, and his chin wobbles as he squeezes Akamatsu’s hands. He blinks rapidly, trying to push back the tears, but it’s no use. The sight of Akamatsu in front of him, so bright and sparkling and _alive,_ is more than he can bear. “A-Akamatsu-san…” 

Quickly, Akamatsu gathers him into her arms, hugging him tight. “It’s so good to see you!” she half-giggles, sounding elated as she holds him. “I missed you so much!”

“I can’t believe you’re okay,” Saihara chokes out. He’s barely gotten to process the fact that Momota really is alive, and seeing everyone here—seeing _Akamatsu_ here—is almost too much. 

Akamatsu pulls back, her hands on his shoulders. “Are you okay, Saihara-kun?” she asks, her voice gentler. 

Nodding, he wipes his eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbles, his heart still thudding hard in his chest. “It’s just… I almost didn’t believe you were…” 

He glances around to see everyone watching him. Harukawa has a soft smile on her lips, the one Saihara had only just begun to see near the end, and he smiles shakily back at her. Everyone else in the group has a similar expression on their faces; Yumeno looks close to tears, Angie is beaming, and even Hoshi is smiling. 

A chorus of voices rises, calling out his name. 

“It’s good to see you awake, Saihara-kun!”

“Good to see you, Saihara.”

“Hey, Shuichi!”

“How are you feeling, Saihara-kun?”

It’s overwhelming, even with good intentions, and Saihara finds himself shrinking back a little bit. Akamatsu and Momota both notice—of course they do—and concern fills their eyes, which makes Saihara cringe even more. 

“I’m good,” he says, a little weakly, with a smile. “It’s good to see all of you.”

Akamatsu’s hands slide down to his upper arms, rubbing gently. It’s a nice gesture, meant to be comforting, but Saihara’s already overstimulated, and the touch feels like sandpaper, too hot through the fabric of his hoodie. He takes a step back, shrugging her hands off, and pretends not to notice the disappointment on Akamatsu’s face as he wraps his arms around himself protectively.

“Saihara-kun,” Akamatsu starts, brows creased in worry. A glance around the room reveals that his classmates’ friendly smiles have dissolved into matching looks of concern. 

“I’m still kind of tired,” Saihara says quickly. It’s not a lie, but it feels like one, a cheap excuse to get away. His heart is thumping hard, chest tightening dangerously. “I’m gonna go back to my room. It was good to see everyone.” He turns, tugging his hood down over his eyes as he reaches for the door handle. 

Momota’s fingers close over his, and Saihara yanks his hand back like he’s been burned. Startled, he looks up to see Momota looking down at him, eyes wide. 

“Sorry,” Momota says slowly. “Uh… I just wanted to ask if you wanted me to walk you back to your room.”

 _Shit._ Saihara swallows hard, his face flushing. “No,” he manages, guilt twisting with the anxiety in his gut. 

And without another word, he flees the room. 


	2. screaming at the sun you blow into

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saihara and Momota deal with their survivor's guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhh i have nothing to say about this. it's unbeta'd because this is purely self-indulgent vent fic. lol
> 
> i plan on having shuichi converse with some of the other characters in later chapters, it just didn't happen in this one
> 
> tw for panic attacks
> 
> (title is from "the other side of paradise" by glass animals)

Saihara is sitting on his bed when someone knocks softly on the door. He lifts his head, dragging his gaze away from where he’d been fixated on his lap, staring down at his hands as he fidgets relentlessly. “Come in,” he says. 

The door opens, and Momota steps in, his face unreadable. It’s strange to see him like this; a shadowy scruff filling out his jaw, hair softer and not as styled as it had been in the game, clad in a casual T-shirt and jeans. There’s a familiarity to him, but the way he holds himself is different, giving Saihara the curious sensation that he’s looking at a stranger in his best friend’s body. 

“You okay?” Momota speaks quietly, as though he’s afraid of spooking Saihara, and it’s yet another jarring difference from how Saihara knew him in the game. 

Saihara presses his lips together in a thin line, looking back down at his clasped hands. He’s trembling, slightly, knuckles white as he squeezes his fingers. “Yeah.”

The scuff of Momota’s shoes on the linoleum floor, followed by the thud of his cane, draws Saihara’s eyes upward again. He watches as Momota comes to sit beside him on the hospital bed, letting out a heavy sigh. Then Momota turns to him, his face set in a serious expression. 

“So, what happened back there?” he asks at a normal volume. “Seemed like you freaked out pretty bad.”

Saihara averts his gaze. “Yeah,” he says again. He pauses, trying to gather his thoughts. “I guess… I just got overwhelmed, seeing everyone like that. The doctor told me that they were all okay, but I guess I hadn’t really processed it, you know? And to see them all so suddenly…”

Once again, Saihara pauses, remembering their faces. The way everyone had looked at him with such open joy, such acceptance. He swallows, and continues, voice rough, “It just reminded me of everything that happened. I… I watched so many of them die. I investigated their murders. I mourned their deaths. And I condemned some of them to execution. I can’t help but feel like I—like I failed everyone.”

His voice breaks near the end, guilt churning thick and dark in his stomach, making him feel sick. He flexes his fingers, then curls them into fists, nails digging into his palms. This isn’t like him, to break down like this—but it’s just too much. 

Momota reaches over, his hand hovering just above Saihara’s shoulder. “Can I?” he asks, and when Saihara nods, he drapes his arm around him, fingers curling around his shoulder and squeezing firmly. 

The touch is grounding. Momota’s arm is heavy but not oppressive, warm but not too hot. His thumb rubs soothing circles into Saihara’s shoulder, the repetitive movement giving Saihara something to focus on other than the sickening guilt and shame. Bit by bit, he relaxes, the tension slowly beginning to drain out of his body. 

“You didn’t fail, Shuichi.” Momota’s lilac eyes are kind when Saihara meets his gaze. “We all did the same stuff as you, y’know? And it was because of your investigations that we all made it as far as we did. Just because everyone survived, that doesn’t change. Hell, it’s even better!” He gives Saihara a lopsided smile, and Saihara finds himself returning it, lips curling briefly. 

The smile fades just as quickly as it had come. “I just feel like I should’ve done better,” Saihara says quietly. “Like I should’ve gotten everyone out sooner. I feel responsible for your—for their suffering.” He swallows, embarrassed by the slip-up. 

Momota gives him a long look, his expression softening. “Hey, Shuichi.”

“Yeah?”

“Remember what I told you? You’re my sidekick. I’m responsible for you, not the other way around, so don’t worry, okay?” 

Saihara chokes out a laugh around the lump in his throat. “Momota-kun, you really don’t have to do that.” 

“Why not?” Momota squeezes Saihara’s shoulders again, drawing him closer. “I don’t want my sidekick feeling bad. There’s a lot of things that were out of your control, and I don’t want you feeling guilty anymore, okay?” 

Biting his lip, Saihara tilts his head down, peeking up at Momota through his hair. “Okay,” he says, his chest filling with a soft, warm glow. 

He’d been wrong, earlier, when he thought Momota was a stranger. Even when everything around them has changed, Momota is a constant, and Saihara was foolish to ever doubt it. 

* * *

Sometime during the night, Saihara wakes to find half-formed memories of life before the killing game filling the gaps in his mind. The moment his eyes open, his head is throbbing, and he sucks in a pained breath, pressing a hand to his forehead. 

It’s like—like a floodgate has opened, a door through which hazy, entangled memories spill out. It _ hurts, _ but all he can do is lay there, squinting up at the darkened hospital ceiling and trying desperately to focus. 

_ “I’d do…  _ anything _ to be a part of Danganronpa.” _

Saihara flinches at the echo of his own voice in his head, presses down harder and wills the memories away, but it doesn’t work. He clenches his teeth so hard his jaw aches, whimpering as the memories flash through his head. 

_ —a letter in his hand, pristine paper crumpled by the tight grip of his fingers— _

_ “I made it! Oh my god, I got in! I got accepted to join Danganronpa!” _

_ —elation, cheeks aching, spread too wide in an ecstatic smile, happy, he’s so  _ happy—

A sob rises in Saihara’s chest, half-strangled, trapped behind his teeth. It rips its way out of his throat anyway, and he squeezes his eyes shut, feeling wetness on his lashes, tears running down his temples into his hair. 

_ —his mother, scowling, disapproving, saying— _

_ “You’re throwing your life away, Shuichi—” _

_ —but this is what he wants, he wants to go, he’s never wanted anything so much in his entire life— _

“Stop,” he gasps out loud, “stop, _ stop, stop it—” _

He’s not sure how long it lasts, but eventually the pain fades into the background, leaving him panting, soaked in sweat and trembling violently. Saihara sits up, covering his mouth with his hand as he cries silently, each sob wrenched from his body with an almost violent force. He feels like he might be sick, choking on the black disgust that crawls its way up from his stomach and spreads through his ribcage. One thought, one phrase, plays on repeat, echoing over and over in his head.

_ I chose this. _

Saihara hiccups. His chest feels like it’s shrinking, constricting, clenching around his heart and his lungs and making it even harder to breathe. He’s having a panic attack, he thinks, but it’s distant, muted, the idea slipping away before he can fully grasp it.

_ Breathe,  _ a voice says in his mind, familiar, and he wants to laugh but he’s crying too hard. The air tastes stale, and every shuddering gasp stabs at his lungs like a knife, too much and not enough all at once.

_ Come on, Shuichi, breathe. Just take a deep breath.  _

“Oh, god,” he chokes out, dragging his hands over his face. His nails sting as they score lines in his cheeks, and the pain brings him back, a little, grounds him enough that he can get in a regular breath. “Fuck,  _ fuck—” _

Minutes pass, and slowly, Saihara regains control, sharp, ragged, shallow breaths easing into deeper inhalations and exhalations. He sniffles, wiping at his tear-stained cheeks with his palms, but it just sort of spreads the wetness around, so he gives up and lets his hands fall into his lap instead. 

He feels… gutted, in a way. Empty. Like he’s cried out everything inside him and now there’s nothing left. With a shaky breath, he looks around the dark room, spotting a box of tissues on the counter in the corner, next to the sink. It’s only a few feet, but the distance feels insurmountable.

It takes another several minutes of just sitting and forcing himself to breathe before Saihara can put himself together enough to get out of bed. He shuffles over to the counter, splashes water in his face and scrubs it dry with a tissue. His cheeks still sting a little from where he scratched himself, but the pain is dull, and there’s no blood in the sink or on the tissue, so he isn’t worried. Vaguely, he thinks that he’d be too tired to care even if there had been blood.

Numb and exhausted, he gets back in bed, curling in on himself under the paper-like hospital sheets. His pillow is wet—there’s a damp spot under his cheek, but he’s too drained to care, not even bothering to flip it over before he sinks back into sleep.

* * *

“Yeah, that’s pretty normal,” Momota says, when Saihara tells him about it the next day. “Most of us got our memories back a few days after waking up, too.” They’re sitting side by side on Saihara’s bed, Momota’s cane propped up against the nightstand. 

Saihara looks up at him. “Does it get easier?” he asks hesitantly. “Having… two different sets of memories in your head?” 

“Not really.” Momota gives him a rueful smile. “Then again, I’ve only been awake for a few days longer than you have. But it seems like it’s been affecting everyone pretty badly. It can get pretty confusing at times, and sometimes the flashbacks are painful, although they’re usually not as bad as the first one.” 

“I see.” Saihara is quiet, turning the new information over in his head. Since he woke this morning, the dull throbbing in his skull hasn’t gone away, but it’s faded, a backdrop to the rest of his tangled, confusing thoughts. His memories still feel vague and fuzzy, mingled with the memories they’d implanted in his head. “What is it like for you?”

Momota glances over. “What’s what like?”

“Being alive when you should be dead.” 

A beat. Then Momota chuckles, the sound flat, humorless. “That’s a hell of a question, Shuichi.”

Saihara’s face burns. “Ah, s-sorry! I just meant—”

“Nah, it’s okay.” Momota nudges him gently with his shoulder. “I get what you meant.” He takes a deep breath, turning his gaze up toward the ceiling as he thinks, and Saihara waits, still mortified.

After a few moments, Momota speaks again. “It’s pretty weird, I’m not gonna lie. I remember dying, y’know? I remember how it felt, being up in that spaceship, looking out at the stars and feeling my body just—give up. Everything went dark for a while after that, and then suddenly I woke up here, and they’re telling me it was all a simulation or some shit, and that all my dead friends are actually alive.” He shakes his head. “I know I should be grateful. I’m getting a second chance at life, right? But it just feels… wrong. Like I shouldn’t be here.”

Momota’s voice cracks on the last word, and he turns his face away, covering his mouth with his hand. Saihara’s heart twists painfully in his chest. He reaches for Momota’s free hand, resting on his knee, and awkwardly curls his fingers around it, hoping he’s not overstepping.

Immediately, Momota turns his hand over, intertwining his fingers with Saihara’s and holding on tight. His palm is warm and a little rough, and he holds on tight, like Saihara’s hand is a lifeline. 

“And then I have this stupid cane,” Momota says, choked. “And they’re saying I’m probably always gonna need it, because of some complications from the simulation and the illness they gave me. I’m eighteen years old and I have to walk with a fucking cane—” His shoulders shake, and Saihara squeezes his hand. Momota squeezes back, too hard, bordering on painful, but Saihara doesn’t protest. 

A long moment passes. Momota wipes at his eyes roughly, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Saihara says quietly. 

Momota takes another breath, then clears his throat. “It’s not like me to break down like this,” he mutters. “Usually I’m the one taking care of everybody else. Didn’t mean to unload on you like that. I know you’re going through your own shit, too.”

Gently, Saihara moves closer, so that their shoulders are touching. “It’s okay,” he repeats. “You’re allowed to be vulnerable, Momota-kun. You don’t have to bottle it up.”

“I guess.” Momota sniffles, wiping his eyes again. “Thanks for listening, Shuichi.”

“Anytime,” Saihara says, and he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is always appreciated!
> 
> you can reach me on tumblr at [space-james](https://space-james.tumblr.com/)! i’m also running this year’s saimota week in may, so check out the prompt list over at [saimotaweek](https://saimotaweek.tumblr.com/) on tumblr or @saimotaweek2020 on twitter!


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